


Asphodel

by rasputinian



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Group therapy AU, alternate universe - no flash, coffee shop AU, everything else is the same though, i guess it's also a coffeeshop au, it's lisa the domestic y'all, its gen right now but let's be real ship stuff will happen, rated m just to be safe because i said a sex word once
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasputinian/pseuds/rasputinian
Summary: "I cannot say that I have gone to hell for your love but often found myself there in your pursuit...  Hear me out."Brad Armstrong returns to Olathe and tries to do things right.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i warned you i was going to do this and no one listened. no one stopped me. you had your chance to make this not happen. you goofed. welcome to lisa the domestic.

Brad smokes a cigarette by the bus stop after group therapy. He does this every Sunday, a silent routine he has for himself, a little reward for doing the right thing. It’s been three months since he’s gotten back from Boulder, a month in sober living and then two more on his own. If he was going to go back to Olathe, his therapist, a man who looked fifty years bleached in the sun, said, he’d need to keep himself accountable. He’d need a plan: CBT on Wednesdays, one-on-one on Fridays, group every Sunday, the bus ride home, a cigarette. It’s worth it, he tells himself, he repeats to himself again and again when his body doesn’t agree with his head. Now, though, every part of him is silent. It’s just him, the moment, the fading sting in his eyes, the sound of cars. A voice.

“Hey, can I bum one?” It’s a familiar one, and, when Brad turns, it’s a face from his group. He’s about the same age as Brad, probably. Maybe he's just tired, stubbly and bag-eyed. The proportions of his face are just slightly off: face a little too long, mouth a little too wide, bangs of his pageboy haircut a little too short. He wears a blue and pink windbreaker, the kind Brad hasn’t seen since the nineties. He’s a hard face to forget.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, reaching into the breast pocket of his tropical shirt for the pack before offering it to Terry.

“Thanks,” Terry says. He pulls the lighter from where Brad has tucked it in the remains of the plastic wrap and lights up before handing both back to Brad, who tucks them into his breast pocket. Brad turns his eyes back to the road, but, in his peripheral, Terry takes a long drag. “Your name’s Brad, right?” he mumbles around the cigarette.

“Yeah.”

“It’s weird talking to people from group in real life. Do you ever, like, hang out with any of those guys?” Brad shakes his head. That was one of the rules of group that Dr. Saunders had laid out on the first day: they weren’t here to make friends. “I haven’t either.” Brad shrugs and stamps out the remains of his cigarette, and the conversation threatens to go along with it until Terry starts it back up again. “You taking the eight?”

“Yeah. What about you?” He hasn’t seen Terry on the bus before. He hasn’t seen anyone he knows on the eight line before, and he has a feeling that’s how he likes it. It gives him a little time to unwind, put away anything that group had dragged out. If he needs some more privacy than public transport anonymity provided, he can put his head on the back of the seat in front of him so that no one can see his face.

“Yeah. Today, at least.” Terry pauses as if providing a space for questions. When Brad provides none, he comes up with some of his own. “I forgot my key to the apartment, so I’m just killing a little time until my boyfriend comes home.”

"Mm.” Brad means to end it there. Then, he thinks of a question that repeats in his head, just behind his tongue, until he voices it. “Why don’t you just call him?”

“He’s got a real job, and this is, like, the third time this has happened,” Terry says, a little laugh. Brad sniffs in a way he hopes come across as amused or at least polite. He can’t tell if it lands correctly. Terry sucks the cigarette down to the filter, turns his head and blows the smoke away from Brad’s face. When there’s nothing left to burn, Terry grinds the cigarette into the sidewalk with his toe. Then, he peers down the street, looking for any sign of the bus. He checks his phone every now and again, alternates between his texts and the bus schedule. He puts his phone back in his pocket, takes it out again, puts it back. Brad waits on edge for Terry to say something else, but he doesn’t even as the eight line rolls down the road.

The two wait as the bus doors hiss open. Brad pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and fishes out a one for the bus fare while Terry digs for coins that clatter to the bottom of the box. The bus is mostly empty at this time of day, and it’s almost impossible for Brad to find a place where Terry cannot sit beside him. He figures it’d be rude to ask him to sit somewhere else. He slides into the window seat, and Terry sits beside him, places his backpack on the floor. “You doing anything after this?” he asks.

“Just going home, I think,” Brad answers, not untruthfully. “You?”

“I think I’m gonna sit outside Starbucks and mooch off their wifi. I’m way behind on my replies.” He winks at Brad and adds, “My public needs me.” Brad laughs, a loud puff of air.

“What replies?”

“For my blog.” Brad nods, trying to remember if Terry had ever mentioned his blog in group. He can’t recall.

“What kind of blog is it?” he asks, and Terry smiles wider than Brad has ever seen before.

“I actually run an advice blog! Like, people send me questions, and I answer them. Just, like, little hints, you know?” Something brightens in him when he speaks.

“Do you get a lot of questions?” Brad asks. Terry nods.

“Yeah. A whole lot.”

“That’s cool,” Brad says, but he watches as whatever he had seen in Terry’s eyes dims even as his smile remains.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Terry begins, a cut of doubt or maybe sarcasm in his voice. “Like, wow, how can that guy give advice when he’s like _that_ in there? But I give really good advice.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” Brad says.

“Oh. Well, that’s what I think sometimes,” Terry says with a little laugh, but the light in his voice remains dim. “I feel like such a shitshow, sharing all that stuff in there with those guys. Like, I start talking about, like, going to the club or whatever, and, then, what’s his name, Birdie or something? He starts talking about his sons and how they, like, died, and I’m like, ‘Whoops, you can go. My bad.’ You ever feel like that?”

“Kind of,” Brad answers.

“You don’t talk a lot in group though,” Terry says.

“I talk plenty,” Brad says almost defensively.

“Alright, dude."  _If you say so_ , he seems to say, but he doesn’t push it any further. When he speaks again, it is forgotten. “Man, I’d kill for a burger right now. Like, when I was living out of my car for a little bit, I used to go through the McDonalds drive through, get a couple burgers, and eat them in the parking lot, and, like, I definitely don’t want to go back to the whole car living part, but some parking lot burgers sound divine.”

"Why didn’t you just go in?”

“Lots of reasons. One: I didn’t have a consistent place to shower, and I was schnasty. Two: It’s generally frowned upon to get three Big Macs and eat them all in one go, at least in polite company. Three: Did you know they have time limits at some McDonalds? Like, you’re only supposed to spend thirty minutes in there. They had a sign on the door and everything. It’s fucking dystopian.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Like, even in the parking lot, they’d get pissy. I had the manager come out and yell at me one time. Well, she didn’t yell. She spoke firmly, but it was upsetting. Really harshed my burger vibe.”

“What’d you do?” Brad asks.

“Oh, I just drove to another McDonalds.” Brad laughs again, almost a proper chuckle, and Terry smiles. “Also, fourth point, you can eat while lying down in the car. Eat a burger like an emperor. It’s decadent.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I don’t have a car anymore though, so my days as parking lot Caesar are over, I guess. I guess I gotta settle for, like, bed Caesar or apartment Caesar or something.”

“You said you just moved here,” Brad says, and, when Terry doesn’t answer immediately, he clarifies, “in group.”

“Oh, yeah! With my boyfriend. I mean, I guess a couple months isn’t really ‘just moved here,’ but it still feels like it. I don’t know anyone but him and, like, my coworkers at the coffee place, but we don’t have a lot in common, so, really, it’s just him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bryan.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Like, six months? Not super long, but he’s helped me out a lot.”

“That’s nice,” Brad says, but it sounds dismissive or even condescending, so he amends. “That’s good, I mean, that he’s helped you.” Terry nods, and, for a long while, Brad debates whether or not to say anything more. “My friend, Rick, has been a lifesaver lately,” he says. With a little gesture backwards towards the hospital and everything left in the four walls of group, he adds, “With all this.”

“Yeah, I think you mentioned him. You guys been friends for a long time?” Terry asks in a way that gives Brad the impression that he already knows. Still, he answers as per rules of small talk.

“Since we were little kids, yeah.” Terry tilts his head back and casts an almost wistful look toward the ceiling.

“That’s great, man. I don’t think I even know anybody from that far back.”

“Yeah?”

“I move around a lot. Always have.” Brad considers asking why, but, then, he considers where that would take the conversation: to Terry’s childhood, his parents, life stories, and, when Terry had taken his turn, the same questions would go back to Brad. He decides against it. Now isn’t the time.

“I think I’ve been here my whole life,” he says, not ashamed but not proud either.

“So you know all the cool spots?”

“I guess,” Brad answers. Olathe doesn’t have cool spots, or at least none that Brad has found in the forty-six years he has lived there, but he doesn’t want to disappoint.

“You wanna show me around sometime?”

“Sure.”

“Sick! You wanna put your number in my phone?” He fishes a cracked phone from his pocket and repeatedly presses the home button, but the screen doesn’t light up. “Ugh, this thing is garbage. Sorry. Wanna try yours?” Brad nods and reaches into the space between himself and the seat of the bus. With his head turned, he doesn’t see the shift in Terry’s demeanor, but he hears it. “This isn’t weird, is it? Like, I’m not, like-”

“You’re good,” Brad answers. “Here.”

“Oh my God,” Terry murmurs, whatever was there before giving way to a smile as he takes the phone from Brad’s hand.

“What?” Brad asks, brow furrowed.

“This thing is ancient, dude. It’s a brick.”

“So?” Terry shrugs, a smile like he has a great joke in mind. He punches the number into the phone with nimble fingers.

“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. Like, who doesn’t enjoy a good game of Snake every now and then? Besides, nothing’s more embarrassing than when an old guy tries too hard to be young.”

“How old are you?” Brad asks.

“Twenty-one.”

“No, you’re not,” Brad says flatly. Terry seems almost offended.

“You wanna see my ID?” The bus hisses to a stop, and the door swings open to let someone on. Terry glances up. “Oh, shit, I think this is where the Starbucks is. I’m still learning the bus routes, so here’s hoping I don’t, like, get murdered.”

“You getting off here?” Brad immediately realizes that was a stupid question considering that Terry is already standing and collecting his things, but Terry doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yep. Text me or send me a telegram or something?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you later!” Terry calls, waving over his shoulder. Brad waves back. He watches as Terry turns, breaks into a little trot as his feet hit the pavement. The doors close behind him, and Brad cranes his head to watch as Terry disappears behind the bus. As he waits the two stops before his own, though, Terry’s phone number and his promise to text him fades from his mind. By the time he walks down the road, up the stairs to his second story apartment, through the living room, past the still-empty second bedroom and into his own, it has vanished completely. In the days following, he remembers in bursts, but he decides it is too late. It would be weird to text him out of the blue, he tells himself. He’d see him at group. He’d talk to him then.

But Terry doesn’t come to group the next week, and he doesn’t come the week after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the reason this took me so long to post is because i was agonizing over the two and a half sentences about hockey in this chapter. pretend i posted this on father's day.

On Saturdays, Brad walks the five blocks to Rick’s house. It isn’t always Saturdays. The day changes with the seasons: hockey, football, whatever shows they can manage interest for in the meanwhile. The TV is just an excuse. The Avalanche didn’t even make it to the playoffs the year before, and Brad is convinced the four of them are only pretending to care about the Buffaloes to keep up appearances. Rick hadn’t even gone to UC Boulder, and Brad, Sticky, and Cheeks hadn’t gone to college at all. No, the real reason they meet every week is because that is what they have done for years. It feels strange to spend a week without the four of them seeing each other at least once. Half of the time, they don’t have anything to talk about, all the interesting conversation topics spent up in previous weeks. Today, though, Brad is excited because it is finally cold enough to wear the sweater that Rick gave him.

“It’s merino wool,” Rick had said, something in his voice like Brad should have known what that meant. Rick knows about things like that. Brad remembers, when Rick and Shelly had first started dating and, later, when he had made attempts to “make things work,” he had showered her in presents: dresses she never wore, jewelry she did, chocolate from European countries with names that Brad cannot remember. Since the divorce, though, and the feuds that followed, Rick’s gift-giving impulse had turned to his friends.

“Thank you,” Brad had said, doing his best to make the sincerity show through in his voice as he inspected the sweater carefully, rubbed the wool between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s really nice.” Rick had nodded, apparently satisfied, but Brad’s birthday was months ago, and he still hasn’t found the opportunity to properly show his appreciation. As he walks up the street, though, he can feel the air crisp against his cheek. For now, the snow remains on the tops of the mountains, but Brad knows it won’t be long until it spreads into town. Brad likes cold weather. He doesn’t mind working up a sweat on the job if it’s cold, and it makes sleeping easier. It also gives him an excuse to give up on his annual resolution to get back into shape. Too cold. Maybe next year.

Rick kept the house in the divorce. (“Gotta look at that silver lining,” he had said, still does say sometimes.) In a lot of ways, it’s nicer than it used to be. Rick had kept himself busy working on the house. He painted walls. He tore up old carpets. He converted Junior’s room into a guest room after he realized he was never getting a call back. The four of them had assembled the new Ikea furniture together. The outside, however, is mostly the same. Same perfectly-kept lawn, same missing planks in the fence, same weather-wear on the porch steps, same front door that Rick keeps unlocked, always has.

“Hey, guys,” Brad says, shutting the door behind him. The festivities have started without him. Cheeks and Sticky sit in front of Rick’s television, Cheeks crosslegged on the plush sofa, Sticky lying on the carpet. Rick himself stands in the threshold between the living room and dining room, a paper plate piled high with chips and pizza and sticks of celery, a healthy touch. His head turns when Brad enters, and he smiles. Rick has gotten old, but he still has a nice smile.

“Hey, pal! I was worried you wouldn’t make it!” he says.

“Sorry. I took a nap. It’s getting cold out there, isn’t it?” Brad asks, and he gives Rick a moment to notice the sweater, but he just nods, his eyes darting between Brad and the TV as the Avs’ left wing races past the center line and towards the Canucks’ end zone.

“Come on,” Rick whispers, and Brad can see the tension in his jaw. The winger hugs the wall, only parting with it to shoot the puck right into the goalie’s ready hand. From the living room, Sticky shakes his head, and Rick mouths something that could either be “shit” or “shoot” depending on the company. Brad doesn’t mind. There is another reason he is excited to be here.

“Where’s-“

“Upstairs,” Rick answers, but he seems a little put off. Brad can’t tell if it’s the game or something else, but he asks anyway.

“What’s wrong?” Rick sighs, shakes his head.

"This week has been a mess, Brad. I’m about to pull my hair out.”

“What’s left of it,” Sticky calls from the floor. Rick scowls, takes a chip from his plate, and tosses it at Sticky. It lands a few inches off its mark.

“Shut up.” Sticky picks the chip off the floor and pops it into his mouth. Rick, meanwhile, turns back to Brad. “Make yourself a plate, Brad. Let me have a couple more beers, and I’m sure I’ll tell you all about it.” Brad nods and heads into the dining room where Rick had prepared a full spread: a mostly-untouched vegetable tray, chips both potato and tortilla, salsa, hummus, one-fourth of a pizza. Brad piles a little bit of everything onto his plate, even takes a handful of baby carrots and a generous dollop of hummus. It beats his last three meals: Hamburger Helper, leftover Hamburger Helper, and microwave ramen.

He pauses at the cooler, the bottles of craft beer that Rick drinks for the taste floating in the half-melted ice. He’d been discouraged from drinking, something about questioning why he wanted to be not sober in the first place. He can’t remember the exact words. Brad had settled on a compromise, two beers, and that was it. He takes his first, uncaps it, and makes his way back to the couch next to Cheeks.

“How’ve you been, Brad?” Sticky asks. Things are still a little weird between Brad and Sticky. His therapist had talked about avoiding people and situations that he associated with getting high. Brad tells himself Sticky doesn’t count: he had cut Brad off a long time ago. He doesn’t know if Sticky still sells or if he even fills the prescription anymore. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Good, I think. Been working my ass off,” Brad says. “I get home, and I go right to sleep.”

“Wow, lame,” Cheeks says. Sticky chuckles.

“You’re so straight-laced. You’re like a real adult. Only took, what, forty-something years?”

“What do you mean ‘forty- _something_?’ We’re the same age,” Brad reminds him. Sticky shrugs and turns back to the TV.

Sports have never been Brad’s thing. It isn’t that he doesn’t like them; he just hasn’t had reason to care until recently. He’d never had the time or money necessary to join a team as a kid, and, after he left home, the only thing he’d used a TV for was the occasional video game with the guys. Now that he worked construction, though, sports was something quick and easy to talk about. “Watch the game last night?” “Yep. A damn robbery is what it was.” Nothing personal. No chance to run into any sore subjects. Instant comradery. So, for the sake of companionship, Brad watches, swears when appropriate, even works up the energy for a “woo” when the right winger weaves around the Canucks’ defender and shoots the puck just past their goalie’s ankles. Only when he hears something moving in the dining room does he turn his head only to find Buddy scavenging the last slice of pizza. When she looks up from the box, their eyes meet. Brad waves, says, “Hey, Buddy,” but he isn’t sure that she can hear him over the sound of the TV. She just waves back before turning for the stairs. Rick looks over, curious at first, but, when he realizes what Brad must have seen, he shakes his head in the same way he does when he’s trying not to say something cruel about Shelly.

“What’s wrong?” Brad asks. Rick sighs.

“Buddy got suspended from school.”

“What for?”

“She gave another girl a black eye,” Rick says.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to,” Brad says, but he only half believes it.

“She beat the girl’s face in with a book.”

“A math book,” Cheeks adds.

“Do you think it was-“ an accident, but Rick cuts him off.

"They had to pull her off, Brad.” Brad grimaces, takes a sip of his beer. “You gotta talk to her.” Brad nearly chokes.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. We’re just her uncles.” Brad looks away. They don’t even say the word, but it still puts him on edge.

“We’re supposed to be the fun ones, dude,” Cheeks says.

“She doesn’t listen to me,” Brad insists.

“She listens to you more than she does any of us,” Rick says, but it doesn’t make Brad feel better. The only times she had ever listened to him, he had raised his voice, and he had been overcome with horror when he heard how awful his voice had sounded. She listened because she was scared, he thinks, he fears. He doesn’t want to be like that. He doesn’t want to be like _that_ , he tells his therapist on Fridays. He doesn’t want Buddy to be scared of him or hate him. He wants things to be good. That has to start with him.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Right now,” Rick says. Brad swallows heavily.

“Right now,” he repeats, but he still feels the unease, almost dread, as he pushes himself off the couch and up the stairs. The upper hallway is dark, the only light spilling from the crack in the guest room door. Brad approaches it carefully, measures his footsteps to keep them quiet.

From the hall, Brad can see Buddy sitting at her desk, reading. Buddy read a lot when she was younger, but Brad can’t recall seeing her with a book in the last few years. She has her hair down, and she’s wearing a sleep shirt, a too big white number with the logo for Rick’s accounting firm on the front, and sweatpants. Her eyes are narrow and serious. Brad’s chest gets tighter with every detail he notices, like he’s already doing something wrong, and he halfway considers lying and saying Buddy was asleep, putting this conversation off until later, letting someone more capable handle it, but he has to do this. He swallows his fear and knocks on the open door. Buddy’s eyes shoot up, but her expression doesn’t change.

“Can I come in?” Brad asks.

“Yes,” she says. Brad pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps inside. He stands awkwardly in the space beside the desk, almost looking over her shoulder, as he tries to figure out what to say next. “What do you need, Brad?” Not cruel but cold.

“Nothing. I just wanted to talk.”

“Oh,” Buddy says. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How have you been?” he asks.

“I’m good.” Brad pauses, thinks of another question.

“How’s school?”

“Good.”

“You making good grades?”

“Yes. Mostly B’s and one C.” She answers his next question before he can ask it.  “In algebra.”

“That’s really good, Buddy,” he says softly, earnestly.

“Thanks.” Brad pauses. He looks over her shoulder at the book, but he can’t tell what it is. Brad can barely read a newspaper, much less a book, but Buddy flips to the next page so quickly. It’s astounding.

“Can I sit down?” he asks.

“If you want.” Brad eases himself onto the bed, sits proper and straight, hands at his sides. Now’s the time.

“Uh,” he begins, “your uncles have been telling me you got into a fight,” he says. Buddy turns from her book and looks him in the face, her expression unchanging.

“Yes,” she says. Brad waits for her to say more, but she doesn’t. She just stares back at him. She’s waiting too. He makes another attempt, but he isn’t sure what comes after this.

“Do you wanna talk about what’s been going on?” he asks. Buddy shrugs. Again, Brad doesn’t know what to say. He almost wishes she would get angry, react in any way, but she just stares. He swallows hard. “I used to get in a lot of fights too back when I was in high school.”

“Did you win?” Buddy asks.

“Some of them.” Buddy nods, a satisfactory answer. “You can’t do stuff like that, Buddy. You just started school.”

“I know,” Buddy answers.

“You don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

"I know,” she says, a little more insistently.

“This girl,” Brad begins, reassessing his strategy, but he can sense Buddy’s frustration. “Was she picking on you? Is that why you got in a fight?”

“No,” Buddy says. “I won’t do it again, okay?” Buddy’s face is calm enough, but Brad can hear in her voice that she’s just trying to get him to shut up.

“Promise me.”

“Promise,” she repeats. The silence boils low as Buddy stares across the gap between them, waiting for him to speak again. When he doesn’t, she says, “I’m gonna read my book.”

“Okay,” Brad says. He pushes himself up, winces as he feels his knees pop. As he shuffles to the door, he watches Buddy out of the corner of his eye so that she doesn’t notice, so that it’s not a big deal. “You know I love you, right?” Buddy smiles, but it’s too polite.

“Uh huh.” Brad manages a thin-lipped smile through the feeling pulling in his chest, nods. “Will you close the door please?” Brad nods again, and he closes it, turns the knob so that it won’t make a sound. He stands in the hallway, unsure of what to do next, unsure of what he’s feeling. It isn’t something easy to parse into emotion words, too many things tangled together, most of them bad. He thinks about going back in and trying to force the conversation, to hash things out no matter how ugly they get, to talk for hours until things are okay, but he knows that will only make the situation worse. He thinks about crying, but no tears to come. Not now. He just stands in the hallway, silent, blank-faced, for a long while. Then, he turns and makes his way down the stairs, trying not to let his steps show how heavy he feels within. Downstairs, Buddy’s uncles sit in front of the TV. It’s a commercial break.

“You guys wanna smoke?” Brad asks.

“I’m good. Thanks though,” Sticky says. Cheeks doesn’t even turn from the TV where a can of ravioli rolls across the grass, through a dog door, and into the kitchen of some happy family.

“I’ll come,” Rick says. He gets up, and the two make their way onto the front porch. Rick sits on the step as Brad pats himself down in search of the pack before finding it in his back pocket.

“Sorry. I think I crushed them a little.”

“It’s fine,” Rick says, reaching for the pack and lighting up. He passes them back to Brad and asks, “Did you talk to her?”

"Yeah.” Brad lights up and inhales, hot and bitter.

“How’d it go?” Rick asks, and Brad exhales.

“I think she hates me.”

“She’s fourteen,” Rick says as if that in itself counts as an answer. Brad says nothing, and that says it all: Buddy has every reason to hate him. Rick senses it. “This is gonna be a lot to work through. I mean, you gotta look at it from her perspective. These last couple months-” Brad nods. He already knows. “You’ll get through it though. I promise.” Brad shrugs, doesn’t look at Rick. He takes another puff of his cigarette. “Hey,” Rick says. Brad turns, and Rick’s face is serious but kind. “You’re doing good.” Brad forces a smile and tries to believe it.

“Thanks.” Rick looks like he’s about to clap him on the back, but he doesn’t because he knows Brad doesn’t like it. Rick knows him, or at least as much as anybody can know another person. He knows that Brad cares, too, but that’s at least in some part due to the fact that, the last time Brad got really drunk, he told Rick and everyone else within earshot.

“If you were a fuckin’ girl,” he’d said, throwing an arm around Rick’s shoulder. “It’d be fuckin’… over.” He’d waved his other hand in front of Rick in a gesture even he didn’t know the meaning of. “Done.” Brad didn’t know what that meant either, but Rick had taken it as well as anyone possibly could.

“You need to drink some water, pal.” And that was the end of it. Rick must have known how much Brad had agonized over it once he sobered up because he never mentioned it again, but Brad still thinks about it sometimes, curses himself for it. He worries that Rick secretly hates him too, but, as they sit on the porch in that first winter’s chill, Brad tries to convince himself that he knows Rick doesn’t.

The Avs lose four to one that night.

“Bad start to a season,” Sticky laments.

“They’ll pick up,” Rick says.

“If not, I hear you can watch _The Bachelor_ online. They got fights in that,” Cheeks adds. Brad shakes his head and finishes his second beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is entirely about junk food and social smoking hope you're ready for that
> 
> s/o to leo for explaining hockey to me. maybe one day i'll be a good boy and know about sport.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so it's been more than six months since i've updated this fanfic. i'm incredibly sorry. i don't really know where to start. suffice to say 2017 has been one of the most difficult seasons of my life for reasons i don't want to get into on a fanfiction site. i'm doing better, mostly. i've got a great support system that i honestly cannot thank enough, and 2018 is looking up in a lot of big ways. if you want to talk to me privately, i'll be more than happy to explain why i've been gone, but, more importantly, i'm back, and i hope to be updating regularly again!
> 
> i'm so grateful for everyone who has stuck with this fic for so long with no word from me. that means so much to me. you don't even know how many times i've woken up feeling like absolute shit only to find that someone's left me a sweet comment. like, you give me purpose. this fic is not dead and i'm still crying every day about these sad apocalypse dads and their goblin daughter fuck you dingaling for ruining my life and yes im gonna buy ninja tears

Brad gets off work around three in the afternoon. It’s nice, he thinks, even if it means he has to get up at four in the morning to fix up a protein shake or some instant oatmeal for breakfast before getting to work. Really, though, he doesn’t mind. Even this late in the fall, he can still catch daylight on his walk home.

Of course, he could find way back in the dark too. Downtown Olathe isn’t anything too impressive. A couple revitalization efforts had brought in some new restaurants, boutique shops full of things Brad doesn’t need like salt lamps and stationary, a little park with an infrequently-used stage for outdoor concerts. People say there is a distillery somewhere in town now, but Brad has never found it. He hasn’t looked hard. Most of the landmarks have stayed the same since he was a kid: the post office, the elementary school, the high school right across the street, the road leading out to the dump where he used to get high.

Brad had never thought much about location when he was younger; the places beyond Olathe had always seemed impossible to reach, useless to consider. His knowledge of the outside world was limited to Rick’s college stories and a weekend beach trip that now, more than twenty years out, remains only as a faint memory. He doesn’t mind that much. The walk home is comforting in its familiarity. He doesn’t have to think as he makes his way down the sidewalk past the rows of painted brick office buildings and stores, the stand alone restaurants and coffee shops, the strip malls in various stages of their life cycles. He just steps forward and lets the world pass him by.

“Psst!” Brad jumps, looks over his shoulder for the source of the sound. There’s no one behind him. He’s almost willing to write it off until he hears it again. “Brad! Over here!” He turns a little more until he sees a figure squatting along the side wall of the Thinking Cup Cafe, a cigarette in one hand. It takes a moment for Brad to realize it’s Terry. He’s dressed in all black, and his hair is in a ponytail with a black elastic headband pinning back his bangs. He beams when his eyes catch Brad’s and gives a little wave with his non-cigarette hand. Brad gives him a friendly nod and ambles over. “God, you’re sweaty,” he says, looking him up and down. “You been doing push ups or something?”

“Just got off work,” Brad says.

“Yeah? I didn’t know you worked over here.”

“I do now. Putting up another office building on Grant.”

“Where’s that? I’m still learning the roads.”

“Over by the post office.” Brad gestures up the road with one hand.

“No kidding? I wish I had known. There’s a really good sandwich place over there. I would have asked you to bring me something.” He offers the pack to Brad. “You want?” Brad nods and takes a cigarette. His knees protest as he settles into a squat beside Terry, and he’s sure he makes a face, but Terry doesn’t say anything as Brad lights up. They’re menthols, not Brad’s favorite, but they’ll do.

“They have sandwiches here, don’t they?” he says as he exhales.

“Yeah, but I work here. It ruins the mystique. I know the person who makes the sandwiches here, and it’d make things weird. I’m looking more for, like, a no strings attached sandwich,” Terry says. Brad turns his head and coughs a laugh into his shoulder. “You good, pal?” Terry asks, and he reaches for Brad’s back like he’s going to pat it. Brad shrugs away from the touch. It’s just instinct, but he can see embarrassment pass over Terry’s face like an optometrist’s lens. One, two, and everything’s clearer. “Sorry,” Terry says, his voice suddenly different, like the conversation is different now. He looks haggard.

“It’s fine,” Brad says, clearing his throat. He thinks about apologizing or explaining, knows that it’s his fault, but part of him knows making a thing of it won’t do much good. He just lets the moment smolder and pass before asking, “What about you?” Terry nods and gives a little shrug. Brad nods, and he takes another drag as he thinks of something else to say. “You haven’t been at group in a while.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I can go anymore. These last couple weeks have been weird,” Terry says, and Brad nods. Terry looks down and ashes his cigarette as he decides whether or not he wants to go on. Brad waits. “Like, uh, Bryan kicked me out, so...”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Terry says. His face remains calm and neutral, but he doesn’t look Brad in the face when he speaks.

“Did something happen?” Brad asks, and it feels like a stupid question, but it’s already out. Terry looks out into nothing, shakes his head slowly as if in disbelief.

“Maybe. Like,” Terry begins, but he doesn’t get much further than that. He just looks into the space between his hands, shakes his head again. “I don’t know. Maybe I should have seen this coming. I’m… I’m a fucking mess, dude.” There’s something in his voice, not quite a crack but a crumble. He swallows it down.

“It’s okay,” Brad says, both an attempt at comfort and an opportunity for Terry to end the sentence there. Terry nods, swallows again. He takes another cigarette from the pack.

“God, I need to quit,” he says as he lights up. “Too expensive a habit, you know?”

“Yeah,” Brad agrees. “Where you staying now?”

“I was staying on my coworker’s couch, but, uh, I kind of had a little bit of an episode the other day, so I’m keeping my stuff at the Y while I figure some stuff out.” Brad nods, thinks about what to say next.

“Do you have someone you could call?” Brad asks. “Friends or family or something?”

“Nah,” Terry says. “I’ll figure something out though. I always do.” The two nod, each in their own way. Brad feels the chill cling to his damp clothes, a breeze picking up from somewhere in the mountains.

“I got a couch.” Terry’s head turns, but he doesn’t say anything as if afraid to risk getting too excited over an offer half-made. Brad sucks on the filter and gives himself a moment to reconsider, but he’s already made up his mind. “You could crash there for a while.”

“For real?”

“Yeah.” Terry inhales, and, for a moment, Brad is afraid he’s going to cry, but his voice is dry when he speaks.

“That’s so nice, dude. Thank you.” Brad nods. It’s the right thing to do. He doesn’t say that because it sounds strange, almost condescending, but he hopes Terry knows what he means. “I get off in an hour. Would you mind, like, waiting for me? I can get you some coffee or something.”

“Sandwich?” Brad asks.

“You don’t want the sandwich. For real. We got German cockroaches.”

“German?” Brad asks.

“The bad ones. The coffee’s fine though. If roaches fall in, they just drown.” Terry laughs at his own joke, and Brad gives a little closed-lip smile. “Come on,” he says, pushing himself up and crushing his cigarette butt beneath his toe. He pulls the neck strap of his apron over his head, brushes the wrinkles from it, and makes a move for the back door. He pauses, adds, “See you inside?” A question.

“Yeah,” Brad answers. Terry nods, smiles, and disappears through the door. Brad sucks hurriedly toward the filter. He knows he’s done something big, but he knows the weight of it hasn’t quite settled in on him yet. He doesn’t let it for now. He just snuffs out his cigarette and pushes himself upright.

The inside of the Thinking Cup Cafe is bright and homey, soft leather couches and heavy wooden tables. Brad had never thought about going inside. He didn’t see the point of buying coffee when you could make it at home, but there are a couple people scattered about the dining room, drinking foamy espresso drinks from mugs, reading newspapers, typing loudly on their laptop computers. Terry and another employee stand behind a glass display counter full of muffins and plastic-wrapped sandwiches. Brad sees no cockroaches, German or otherwise, but he takes Terry’s word and only orders a black coffee from the cashier, a freckle-faced kid who can’t be more than nineteen.

“I got it, Jack,” Terry says. Jack nods, and Terry pours Brad a coffee. He hands him the mug with a smile, and Brad takes a seat on the couch. He holds the mug in both hands, lets the warmth seep through his hands and up his arms, and sips carefully. Hot and earthy and bitter. Time passes quickly. Brad lets himself sit in emptiness, sipping his coffee and staring at the covers of the magazines on the table. He doesn’t open them. Occasionally, he looks up and finds Terry looking at him. Terry smiles, or he makes a face, before getting back to work. Finally, Terry dips into a back room and emerges, apron-free. Brad collects his things, and the two head out the door and onto the street. They pause for a moment, trying to figure out which direction to go.

“Can we run by the Y? I got my big bag in a locker over there,” Terry asks

“Sure.” With that, they set off down the road, side by side. Terry is quieter than Brad expects, but it’s uneasy quiet, like he’s waiting for someone to speak next. He sees Terry think about things to say, wet his lips every now and then like he’s about to speak, but he decides against it for a long while.

“You see what I mean when I say I can’t talk to my coworkers?” he asks finally, and Brad chuckles. “What am I supposed to talk about with kids that just graduated high school? Like, ‘Hey, don’t be like me!’” He pauses for a second, then adds, “I feel like such a cliché, you know?” Brad can’t tell if it’s frustration in his voice or the setup for a joke.

“Why?”

“Staying at the YMCA. You know, like the song?”

“What about it?” Terry raises an eyebrow.

“Dude, it’s about gay homelessness. You didn’t know that?” Brad shakes his head.

“I just know the dance.”

“Yeah, it’s a good one. They need to make dances for other societal issues. We need a dance for, like, food disparity. A song that teaches you how to make the most of shit you get at a food pantry.” Brad isn’t sure if this is an okay joke to laugh at, so he says nothing. “You dance at all?” Terry asks. Brad shrugs. He thinks about doing the YMCA, but the moment passes. “What, you the kind of guy who stands still at concerts? You get a good head bob going?”

“Wallflower,” Brad answers.

“Bummer.” Terry doesn’t say anything else until they reach the stairs of the Y. Terry takes a step toward the door before asking, “You wanna come in with me?”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Okay. I’ll be right out.” Brad nods and watches as Terry enters through the glass doors. He checks his phone, nothing missed, and calls Rick just to check in. The gears are starting to turn in his brain, and he begins to shape up a story to explain that a friend is staying with him, and it’s no problem, and it will just be a little while. He’s not sure if he has the phrasing right as the phone rings, rings again, rings again. Fortunately, Rick doesn’t pick up. Brad goes back to waiting. Eventually, Terry emerges with a yellow duffel bag tucked beneath his arm. It’s less full than Brad expects it to be.

“This it?” Brad asks.

“Yep. Lead the way.” The twenty minute walk is mostly quiet. Terry’s eyes dart back and forth as the quiet stores and offices give way to quieter houses until they reach Brad’s apartment building. It’s a little brick number with a flight of stairs the landlord had painted red-orange connecting the ground and upper floor apartments. Brad lives in number two, on the upper floor, so he has a deck to match the stairs, a tired ashtray sitting outside his door.

“The downstairs neighbor’s nice,” Brad says as they make their way up the stairs. “Don't really talk to the others though.”

“Not the social butterfly?” Terry asks, and Brad can tell he already knows the answer. He just shrugs, fumbles with the keyhole.

The inside of the apartment open and mostly bare: a single upholstered couch on a thrift store rug, a coffee table, a television. The kitchen is bright and minimal, only separated from the living room by the seam between wood flooring and tile. The cabinets are a dark wood, and the counters are some sort of cream, presswood and plastic. A hallway gives way to extra doors, barely visible in the afternoon darkness. It’s okay. It’s home.

“This place is nice, dude!” Terry says, looking around with what seems like genuine happiness. He takes a couple steps forward, craning his neck to see over the couch, down the hallway. Brad throws his jacket onto the floor and kicks off his shoes.

“Thanks. Rick helped me find it.”

“You wanna give me the tour?” Brad hadn’t expected this, but he improvises.

“Kitchen. You can eat what you want in the fridge as long as you don’t eat all of it. Here’s the couch. I don’t have cable, but you can get local stations on the TV. Bathroom’s down the hall on the left. My room’s across from that, and the other door that side is Buddy’s.” Terry’s eyes widen.

“Wait, wait, wait, is me staying gonna be weird with your daughter living here?” Brad shakes his head.

“She’s with her uncle right now. This is for when she moves back.” He pauses, admits, “That might not be for a while.”

“Gotcha.” Terry doesn’t push the issue any further. Brad appreciates it. “Do you have a washing machine? I just realized all of my clothes are dirty.”

“Closet in the hall.”

“And a shower?” Terry asks.

“Yep,” Brad answers, but Terry doesn't move. “What?”

“Can I borrow a change of clothes so I'm not, like, nude in your house?”

“Sure. One sec.”

“Sorry, man. Like, literally all my clothes are dirty,” Terry says from the living room as Brad makes his way down the hall and into his room. After a bit of digging, he returns with an old band t-shirt and some flannel pajama pants.

“They're a little big,” he says apologetically. Terry takes the clothes with both hands and holds them carefully, reverently in front of him.

“I don't mind,” he says. “Thanks.” Brad nods, and it feels like Terry has something else to say. When he does, though, it’s nothing important. “I’m gonna shower. Gotta wash the fucking crust out of my hair.” Brad’s nose wrinkles, and Terry laughs. “I know, right?” With that, he makes his way down the hall.

Brad microwaves a can of soup and eats it on the couch while Terry showers. The air in the house smells clean, a different brand of shampoo. Brad turns on the TV just for the background noise. It’s the local news, interesting enough to keep him awake but boring enough that he doesn’t have to pay too much attention. It’s nice. Quiet.

Terry comes out of the bathroom in Brad’s pajamas. They swallow him. When he joins Brad on the couch, he seems more fabric than man.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks again for the clothes.”

“Mm,” Brad replies. Terry’s eyes hold on him. They’re dark, baggy, smaller than than the size of his face might require.

“You a big Led Zepplin fan?” Terry asks, and he gestures to the Icarus on the front of the shirt. Brad shrugs. “You seem like the dad rock type.” Brad’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t respond, and Terry’s expression softens. “Sorry, you don’t mind if I sit on the couch with wet hair, do you? I know some people are weird about that.”

“You’re fine.” Terry doesn’t say anything else. He turns to the TV, something strange in his eyes, and settles into the corner of the couch. They sit in silence until Brad feels his eyes starting to get heavy. “I'm going to bed,” he says, pulling himself from the couch before he gets too comfortable. It wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t make it to bed.

“This early?” Terry asks. He seems a little disappointed, or maybe he’s just mocking Brad.

“Got work tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He smiles. “Night, Brad.” Brad manages a smile in response.

“Night.” He makes his way down the hall and into the dim, yellow light of his room. He shucks off his pants and throws them into the dirty clothes pile on the floor. He turns off the light next to the dresser, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. Brad settles under the covers as he does, like a stone in water: not necessarily sleeping but still. He listens to the sound of the TV in the other room, a distant sign of life, and waits for sleep to take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "and they were roommates" oh my god they were roommates
> 
> hey rasputinian do you ever get tired of cliche fanfic plots??? no fuck you
> 
> im not active on tumblr anymore, but you can find me on twitter @rasputinian! im on private because im employed and dont want my boss to read my dadshipping tweets, but youre welcome to follow request!
> 
> thanks again to all the people who helped me out during this rough period of my life, especially my coworkers, my mom and grandma, my friends both online and in meatspace. special shout outs to brandi, rickaya, claude, and leo for carrying me through the worst of my bullshit. thanks to sandra and sergio for being like a second family to me. thank you to frida, wolfy, fai, ros, and shay for being On The Lisa Bullshit with me. you people carried me through this. i would not be here without you. i mean that. i love all you bitches so goddam much
> 
> here's to me updating in a timely manner again!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o to hannah frutbat on tumblr for beta reading this for me thx bb

Living with Terry is easy enough, Brad figures. He barely sees him for the first couple weeks. Their shifts don’t line up, and, by the time Brad gets home, Terry is at work and only comes home, slumped over with exhaustion, when Brad is getting ready for bed. Terry invites Brad to sit on the couch with him, but he usually turns him down. Sometimes, Brad has nightmares. They’re not as bad as they used to be, but they keep him up for a while. He goes into the kitchen and finds Terry awake and on his phone, his face softly illuminated in that early dark.

“Hey, Brad,” Terry says, or he asks, “What are you doing up?” And sometimes Brad asks him the same question, but, usually, he just hums acknowledgement and gets some water from the tap. He drinks it in the kitchen, puts the cup in the sink, and sits in the night-silence until he feels quiet enough to go back to his room. Even then, Terry’s not always there; he disappears at night sometimes. Brad doesn’t know where he goes, but it’s none of his business.

After several weeks, though, it becomes clear that Terry isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

It starts with little things.

“You don’t mind if I drink here, do you?” Terry asks one afternoon as he stands in the door of the refrigerator. Brad is cutting his toenails into the miniature trash can in the living room. They’re both in their pajamas, and Brad can’t help but think it feels a little bit like a sleepover. When Terry asks, Brad meets his gaze and shrugs. He knows it’s the wrong answer, of course. They met in group therapy for men dealing with addiction. He’d heard Terry himself talk about how he knew he had a problem. But Terry’s an adult.

Brad comes home three days later to find a container of boxed wine in his fridge. It doesn’t take up much space. Brad barely even thinks about it, and, in a few days, it’s off his mind completely. But, little by little, reminders of Terry’s presence force themselves into Brad’s view.

He trips over Terry’s sneakers one Monday afternoon when he’s coming home from work and scrapes his leg on the corner of the coffee table. It’s not enough to draw blood, but it stings, and Terry isn’t around to hear him swear when he goes down. One day, Brad opens the fridge to find that someone has eaten the leftover pasta he had been planning on having for dinner. Terry masturbates late at night when Brad is trying to sleep. He can hear him in the bathroom even though he turns on the faucet. And, in the mornings, when Terry brushes his teeth, he plays music on his phone, usually some pop song from the Nineties that Brad had been content to leave in decades past.

“What the hell is this?” Brad asks.

“It’s Britney, bitch. Sorry you don’t appreciate the classics,” Terry quips, and Brad doesn’t say anything. They’re just little things, nothing Brad wants to pick a fight over, but, after two weeks, they form a little pile, a growth that crowds in Brad’s chest.

“You can’t keep taking in strays,” Rick says over dinner. The five of them, the guys and Buddy, have kept quiet around the table, and Brad wonders how much is the food, baked chicken with a sauce and roasted root vegetables, and how much is Rick being angry with him. He tries not to seek reassurance so much anymore. He’s listened to his friends when they promise him they’ll tell him if they’re upset. He’s listened to his gut when it tells him that asking too many questions just pushes people away, that it’s too much pressure to put on one person, that, even though they were there for him when he left home with nothing but a backpack full of clothes, when Lisa died, when he tried to kill himself again, asking them if they’re mad might be one step too far.

“I’m not,” Brad says. “He’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.”

“I mean it, Brad,” Rick says, a little more firmly. “It was one thing with Buddy or you letting the kids sleep on the couch at the dojo, but this is a grown man you’re talking about.” Rick takes a bite of his chicken and chews over his thoughts. “You gotta take care of yourself right now.” Brad makes a little noise of agreement as he takes another bite of his chicken.

“Dinner’s real good, Rick,” he says, and Sticky and Cheeks mumble an agreement around their forks.

“Thank you! Buddy helped,” Rick says cheerily.

“Good job, Buddy,” Brad says. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Sometimes,” Buddy says. Brad’s chest feels tight and warm, a little tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Did you tell Brad what you’re doing this weekend, little lady?” Rick nudges, and Buddy looks half-annoyed, half-embarrassed.

“I’m trying out for the hockey team,” Buddy says.

“That’s exciting,” Brad says.

“Isn’t it?” Rick replies. The tone in his voice lets Brad know it might have been his idea in the first place.

“See if we can get our team to win now!” Cheeks says with a wink.

“They let everyone that tries on the team,” Buddy says, and Brad can’t tell if that’s supposed to disparaging to herself or to the rest of the team.

“Still,” Sticky says, “it’ll be good for you to meet people.” Buddy hums agreement or maybe just acknowledgement.

“Mind if I come watch you try out?” Brad asks.

“You can if you want.” And Brad knows that’s a polite yes, that she does mind, but Rick either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care.

“I’ll pick you up, Brad. We’ll ride together,” he says. Buddy doesn’t respond.

“Can I be excused?” Buddy asks finally, and Brad wonders if that’s something that Rick taught her. He wonders if it’s a rule he’ll enforce when she moves back home. He wonders how much she minds saying it, if it’s something she complains about to her friends at school, if it’s something she’ll bring up in therapy when she’s a grown up. He knows she’ll need therapy when she grows up, probably. He wonders if she’ll still speak to him then.

“You may,” Rick says, and Buddy says goodnight before putting her dishes in the sink and heading up the stairs. Brad watches as she goes. When he looks back, Rick smiles at him.

Brad walks back in the cold night silence. Sometimes, he thinks of walking all night, just wandering until his legs give out, until he disappears completely and no one ever finds him. But he goes home like he always does, up the stairs and through his front door. Terry sleeps on the couch in his underwear and one of Brad’s t-shirts, his legs splayed wide and his forearm covering his eyes. His blanket is half wrapped around his waist, the rest piled onto the floor. Brad sighs and makes for the shower.

The next day, Brad sits outside his door. He doesn’t have a good reason. He had told himself he was going to have a smoke before he went inside, but that had been fifteen minutes ago, and he hasn’t taken his cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Hey, Brad!” his neighbor, Otto, calls from his porch. He steps out from beneath the overhang to peer upwards, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun with one hand. Brad waves and descends the stairs to meet him.

Otto, in a lot of ways, isn’t what he used to be. He’s gained weight since he and Brad first met, and Brad assumes he doesn’t pull off the fuzzy vest as well as when he used to make his rounds at independent wrestling promotions. His hair is thinning out, not enough to be bald but enough that it’s translucent at the right angles. Some things haven’t changed, though: his crooked-toothed smile, the friendly shove he gives Brad when he sees him.

“How’s it going, brother?” he asks.

“It’s going,” Brad answers.

“Aw, I feel you. Why don’t you sit for a while?” He gestures to the set of folding chairs on either side of his front door, and the two take a seat. “I’ve been seeing some berries and cream-looking guy going into your house. You know him?” Brad sighs.

“Yeah. I’m just helping him get back on his feet.”

“Just keep it on the down low.” He gestures to the door to the bottom left apartment. “You know how that guy gets. I’m telling you, I hung up one of those punching bags up in my living room. Trying to get my groove back, you know?”

“Uh huh?”

“Apparently, I put it in front of my window. Got a call from the landlord. The guy narced on me. I had to take it down. Landlord stood in the room and watched while I did it. It was a real tragedy.” Otto shakes his head, takes a moment of silence. Brad respects it. Soon, though, he’s on a decidedly more upbeat and well-trod topic. “When are we gonna get back into the ring?” Brad chuckles and recites his lines. As soon as he gets some time. They sit out there for a while, looking out onto the street and performing the pleasant kayfabe of the conversation, until Brad feels his eyes start to get heavy. He excuses himself and makes his way up the stairs, past the bathroom where Terry listens to Madonna, and into his room. He puts his head beneath the pillow to try and drown out the noise.

 

It’s three PM on a Thursday when Brad comes home to find Terry on the couch. There’s a wine bottle on the floor, and Brad can’t tell if Terry is asleep or passed out or just still, his face hidden between the couch cushion and his own arm.

“Wake up,” Brad says. Terry slithers on the couch like a worm. He looks like he’s trying to push himself up, but he doesn’t or can’t.

“-M awake,” Terry answers.

“Don’t you have a shift today?” Brad asks. Terry groans a little.

“Yeah, at three.”

“It’s three now.” It takes a second for Terry to process.

“Fuck.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Yeah,” Terry answers.

“Terry,” Brad begins in a familiar voice, in a way that sounds like he’s talking to Buddy, but Terry cuts him off.

“I know, okay?” His voice sounds like it’s about to break. His shoulders bunch up, a deep valley between his shoulder blades. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on the verge of a fucking breakdown all day, and I’m fucking-” But his sentence peters off into a little, shuddering whine like he’s frightened of where the sentence might go. Brad doesn’t know what feeling this is in his chest. It might be pity. He makes his way to the couch and settles in the gap between the arm and Terry’s feet.

“Look at me.” Terry turns little by little. His face is wrecked, all red and tear-swollen. He’s not actively crying, but his eyes are wet. “You gotta get cleaned up. Call your boss and say you’re gonna be late.” Terry nods, lip quivering. Brad hands him the cell phone sitting on the floor next to one of the empty plastic cups from Brad’s cupboard. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, I haven’t had to go to the hospital since I was in my thirties.”

“Thought you were twenty-one.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

“I’m gonna get you a washcloth.” Brad gets up and makes his way to the bathroom where he wets a rag with cold water. In the living room, he hears Terry stumble his way through a phone call. _I’m sorry. I think I got food poisoning. I’ve been throwing up. I know. I’m sorry. I’m on my way right now. Okay. Okay. Bye._ But he’s off the phone by the time Brad makes it back to the couch, and he can’t tell if the brevity of the call is a good thing or a bad thing. Terry’s face is hard to read, Brad is realizing. Maybe he’s just bad at reading.

“Thanks,” Terry says, and he takes the washcloth from Brad’s hands. He holds it to his eyes, and his mouth twitches, wrinkles like he’s about to cry again, but he doesn’t. “Can I get some water too?” he asks. Brad hums a confirmation, and he heads for the kitchen. “Do you like me?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do,” Brad answers matter-of-factly.

“No, really. Like, I know I’m annoying, and, I’ve been mooching off all your shit, and-”

“You’re working yourself up again. Drink the water.” Terry does as he’s told, holds the washcloth in one hand and the glass in the other. He drinks slowly, more pressing the glass to his lips than actively sipping.

“I do this shit all the time. Just bounce from house to house.” He doesn’t sound as tearful, but the spaces the tears once filled echo. “This is what happens. I get shit drunk and wear out my welcome. Fuck up my life one place and go somewhere else.”

“You gotta go to work.”

“I know.” Terry’s voice is so small. Brad watches as he takes another sip of water. There’s yellow sleep on the corner of his eye. Brad wants to brush it away, but he decides that would be too intimate a gesture, like something he would have done for Buddy when she was little. Like Rick had wiped vomit from his mouth when they had lived together and Brad had made himself sick, again.

“Are you gonna be okay to walk?”

“Yeah,” Terry says.

“Do you want me to walk with you?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

“I know.” Terry pulls on his shoes. There’s a hole in the toe, Brad notices. He can see the sock-outline of his big toe flex its way into the shoe, dig into the sole as he pushes himself upright. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, uneasy but resigned. He makes eye contact with Brad like he’s going to say something serious, but he can’t figure out for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he settles on, and, then, “Thank you, Brad.” Brad’s not good with words. He just nods. Terry smiles. Then, he’s out the door.

That night, Brad walks into the living room and finds Terry sound asleep. He’s still, cocooned in his blanket with only his face visible. Brad wonders how his shift went, but his face is clear. He’ll ask him in the morning.

Brad doesn’t mind living with Terry. It’s easy enough, he thinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to actually have to do research for the next chapter because it involves sports. im awful at being a boy and a writer and a human.
> 
> sorry i haven't been replying to comments as frequently as i used to! i haven't been on ao3 much as of late, but I read them all and really appreciate them!!  
> contact me rasputinovitch.writes@gmail.com or on twitter @rasputinian! also, i'm always open to doing commissions and am very flexible about pricing! i can even write about things that aren't lisa! blease gibe me moni


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! im late but at least im not a year late like i was last time. im keeping busy being a werking man
> 
> cw for ableism and fatphobia in this chapter. These boys aren’t woke. Also, please let me know if I step out of my lane writing about disability. I’m able-bodied, and, while I tried to do my research, I’m definitely prone to fucking up.
> 
> s/o to @harpycall for beta reading this for me and to @unbecomings for explaining so many things about hockey to me. both of them are better writers than me and i owe them my life.

Terry and Brad are eating scrambled eggs on the couch when Brad gets the call from Rick that he’s outside, that he’ll see him in a second.

“I’m heading out,” Brad says, sliding the remainder of his eggs onto Terry’s plate.

“Where are you guys going?” Terry asks.

“Buddy’s got hockey tryouts today,” Brad answers. He puts his empty plate on the coffee table as he bends over to tie his shoes.

“Oh, sweet. Do they, uh, throw gloves or whatever?” Terry asks.

“I don’t think so. They’re kids.”

“If anything, that means they should fight more. Their little bones will grow back faster.” Brad snorts.

“Is this the advice you give people on your blog?” he asks.

“No one ever asks me about sports or kids. Probably for the best.” Terry’s eyes follow him to the door, his features soft and expectant. He’s waiting for Brad to invite him. Brad considers it for a second, but he decides against it. There are only five seats in Rick’s car, and Buddy gets quieter than normal around new people, and he can hear the change in Rick’s voice whenever Brad brings up Terry in conversation, and it scares him so, so much. He just smiles, tight-lipped. Terry seems to understand. Brad can see the smile fade from his eyes. “Have fun,” he says.

“See you.” Brad turns and heads out the door before the situation gets too awkward. Fortunately, the tension eases quickly when he sees Rick’s car, a little red sedan, on the car pad. Rick looks up at him with his usual smile. Sticky leans over and slams on the horn with one hand, and Rick swats at him, his scolding silenced by the windshield as Brad makes his way down the stairs.

“Hey, guys,” Brad says as he slides into the only available seat, in the back beside Buddy. Cheeks is on the other side of her. “We ready for some hockey?” The car rumbles a low assent. “How’re you feeling, Buddy?”

“Okay,” she says.

“You nervous?” She doesn’t answer immediately.

“No,” she decides.

“Good,” Brad says.

“You’re gonna do great,” Rick says in his gentle way.

“I think Buddy should get to sit in front. It’s her day,” Cheeks says, and Brad can tell he’s looking for a new voice in an old argument. Buddy bristles like a cat, but she doesn’t say anything, just sits with her eyes narrowed and her claws out.

“I’m disabled, shithead.” Sticky points to his leg. Brad hasn’t seen it outside of his pants in years, not since he and the guys had visited him in the hospital after the car accident that shattered every bone in his left leg. Brad had smuggled him weed. They had him on heavy pain meds already, but Brad figured that the thought counted for something. Now, some twenty years and five surgeries out, Brad tries not to look, but he doesn’t know how much of that is politeness and how much is some other personal failing.

“Well, we’re already on the road, so there’s no use fighting about it now,” Rick says, a quiet exhaustion in his voice like he knows the argument isn’t going to listen to reason.

“You’re only disabled when you want something.”

“I  _ want _ my leg to not be cramped back there between your fat asses.”

“You told me it doesn’t even hurt anymore,” Cheeks says, and Sticky turns.

“I said it depends on the day, and you know that,” he says, a rare flicker of genuine frustration in his voice.

“Guys,” Brad says firmly. Buddy flinches at first, but, as the car simmers quiet, she looks over to him. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t smile, but it feels like a thank you. Brad nods for whatever it means, and he turns away while he’s ahead.

The road to the rink isn’t long, but Brad presses his face to the window like a child on a long road trip. The road feels nice, something tactile to ground him in the moment, to distract him enough so that he doesn’t have to think. Soon, they’re stopping, and they’re there. Brad stirs as if just waking up.

“Are you excited?” Rick asks.

“Yes,” Buddy answers. She doesn’t sound it. Brad wonders if that’s a trait she got from him. He doesn’t know if people can pick up traits from people they aren’t blood related to, if something genetic transfers by touch. Buddy used to laugh a lot more, he remembers. He doesn’t know how much of that is normal.

They group shuffles out of the car. Buddy gets out on Cheeks’ side but not before looking back at Brad. Get a move on, she seems to say, but it’s only for a second. Then, she’s gone. Brad opens his door to take up the tail of the group.

As they pass through the doors of the ice rink, Brad shivers at the sudden change in temperature. The girls are already gathering on the ice, a loose circle forming around who Brad presumes to be the coach. Anxiety seizes in his chest: are they late? Are they late? But Buddy seems unfazed as Rick ushers her to the skate rental.

Buddy laces up her skates all by herself. Brad shouldn’t be surprised by that, but he is. They used to go ice skating when she was little. He would hold her hands as they circled the rink, both of their knees wobbly. She would go out on little excursions, circle him until she returned to his hands where they made another lap together. But, of course, that was years ago, and this is now.

The guys watch from the stands as she makes her way onto the ice, no trace of the hesitation in the car left in her stride. The girls faintly acknowledge her as she joins the circle. Then, after a few minutes, the coach begins to talk. What he says isn’t clear from the stands, but the shrill sound of the whistle is. The girls form a line and skate hard up the center of the rink, two by two. They split circle back, hugging the side walls, before the next pair of girls take their turn. Another whistle, and they move to the corners where they cross beneath the center circle and weave figure eights around the faceoff circles. Again, and they skate tight circles around little, orange cones the coach has placed on the rink.

“God, how many ways can they make a bunch of girls skate in a circle?” Sticky asks. Brad nods, but his eyes are trained on Buddy. Her movements are so effortless, the way she turns on a dime, the way her skates carve graceful arches into the ice. She has to have been getting some practice in, Brad thinks. He doesn’t know when she could have, though, or how she could be getting to the rink. He wonders if she’s been walking. He hopes not. It’s too dangerous for her to be walking around by herself. Before he can think about it too hard, though, they move into shooting drills. Brad admires her control as she handles the puck, the power in her shot. Buddy’s strong for a kid, he thinks. She always has been.

Some 30 minutes later, the coach blows his final whistle, and the circle around him breaks. Some of the girls stay on the ice and chat, but Buddy glides toward the raised threshold of the rink where Brad and her uncles wait.

“How’d it go, little lady?” Rick asks.

“Good. I made the team,” Buddy says nonchalantly. “I think everybody did.” She doesn’t look at them as she sits down on the bench and unties her skates, pulls on her sneakers. “I’m gonna be a forward.”

“Do you like it?” Rick asks.

“I think so.”

“You skated hard out there. Are your legs tired?” Rick asks.

“A little.”

“Well, you’re getting too big for any of us to carry you. Think you can make it to the car?” Cheeks asks.

“I’ll manage,” Buddy says. She and her uncles begin making their way towards the exit. Brad hangs back for a moment.

“Hey,” he says. Buddy stops, looks him in the eye. “You did a good job.” A beat. He’s not good at this. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

Three miles and five celebratory ice cream cones later, the car starts its way back to Brad’s apartment. Brad’s head is pressed against the glass, the thought of skating trips long past still heavy on his mind. He doesn’t know why they stopped going together. One day, they just stopped. Brad feels guilt reflexively, a sharp and overwhelming sensation like a muscle somewhere inside him is spasming, and he tries to stop the thought he knows is coming before it arrives, that he and his father used to play in the back yard together until, one day, they didn’t anymore. It’s not the same thing, he tells himself, more chant than belief, like the Latin of Lenten Mass. It’s not the same thing, but it is.

“You feeling okay, Brad?” Rick asks.

“Yeah,” he answers. The car is moving, a steady hum where his skull meets glass. Brad exhales.

Terry is sitting on the porch when Brad gets home. He’s wearing one of Brad’s jackets and holding a glass of wine in one hand. Brad doesn’t push the issue. His head hurts.

“Hey, man. How were the baby sports?” Terry asks.

“Good. She made the team,” Brad answers. He looks back to the car. Rick looks up at him and Terry, an expression Brad knows all too well, before he turns to back out of the car pad. Guilt flares up again, and he knows this is a conversation he and Rick are going to have later.

“Hell yeah. Congratulations,” Terry says, craning his neck to watch the car back out. “Was that Buddy in there?” he asks. Brad takes a seat beside him.

“Yep.”

“She doesn’t look like you,” Terry says.

“That’s probably good,” Brad says dryly.

“Don’t say that,” Terry scolds. “What was her mom like? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t know. She’s adopted.”

“Really? I didn’t think they’d let a single dude adopt a kid.”

“We found her when she was a baby. Got too attached. Rick and me pretended we were a couple.” Terry gives him a sidelong grin.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“And they believed you?”

“I guess,” Brad says with a shrug.

“Wow. Isn’t there a movie like that?”

“No clue.” A pause.

“You wanna watch one?” Terry asks.

“What?”

“A movie.” And, even though the conversation has soothed the guilt for the moment, Brad agrees.

“Okay.”

They make their way inside, shucking off their shoes and jackets at the front door, and sit on the couch, their backs against either arm and their feet touching: Brad’s, Terry’s, Brad’s, Terry’s. Terry asks what Brad wants to watch, but he doesn’t care. Something funny, he guesses.

“You’re not giving me much to work with, dude,” Terry says with feigned annoyance, but he eventually digs far enough into the files on his computer to find something he thinks will make the grade. He settles back into place, pulling the blanket over his bare arms as the movie starts. “Where’d you find her?” Terry asks, not taking his eyes from the screen.

“Who?”

“Buddy.”

“The dump. I used to hang out there when I was younger. Heard her crying.” Terry blinks once, and again. He looks at Brad, a gaunt horror in his face.

“That’s fucked up. Who’d just leave a kid out there?”

“I don’t know,” Brad says, but that guilt-muscle twinges again inside him, sharper than ever. He lays claim on the closest corner of blanket, and he tries to breathe himself still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey gang i got a commission fic i'm gonna post within the next week god willing and then it's back to the regularly scheduled asphodel. this next chapter wont take as long to write because it does not require me to know as much about sports.
> 
> until then, you can contact me on twitter @rasputinian or via email at rasputinovitch.writes@gmail.com. i also got a curiouscat which is also @rasputinian.
> 
> thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> "where have you been" twitter mostly, ireland less so  
> "is ___ gonna be in this au" probably  
> "why did you do this" ive been called the cancer of the lisa fandom and i intend to defend my title
> 
>  
> 
> thanx to frida who i s2g planned half of this au with me and to all my friends who have supported me on my journey to becoming the second most popular non-undertale lisa fanfic guy


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